


Amber and Copper

by Beleriandings



Series: Tales of Lake Mithrim [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Amras assumed to have died at Losgar, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-31 22:16:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sons of Fëanor receive news of Maedhros after his capture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amber and Copper

The rain is driving down in near-horizontal sheets by the time we reach the camp, whipped into icy darts by the bitter wind off the lake. The clouds lower, iron-grey, and I hear a rumble of thunder as we run, hand in hand, towards the shelter of the eves of the main courtyard. It is a roughly square space surrounded by clusters of low, flimsy, temporary buildings. Although it is nearly dark, few windows glow with the warm light of a fire, rather with the harsh pale blue of lampstones. Light is easy enough to come by in the camp, our father made sure of that, but warmth is a precious commodity. I glance down at Tyelpe as we pause in the doorway. He sniffs and pushes back the sodden black hair from out of his eyes.

“Shall we find your ada?” I ask, and then immediately regret it, as I remember that this is a topic which probably pains him more than he will admit. (My brother and his son, I sometimes think, have identical hard edges to the gaze of their flint-grey eyes. Yet it does not bring them closer together.) But if he is troubled, he shows little sign of it. He simply shrugs and folds his thin arms, not quite meeting my eyes. But that has become usual for him recently. As it has for the rest of us, I realise with a slight jolt of some emotion I cannot quite categorise. I run my fingers through my own dripping hair and push open the door to the room we rather ambitiously refer to as the council chamber.

I know something is wrong as soon as I step into the room. My brothers are there, standing still and silent in a rough circle around the table in the centre. It is not a comfortable silence; the very air seems thick with a kind of suffocating tension. Tyelpe takes my hand, seemingly unconsciously, and I give his what I hope is a comforting squeeze.

Curvo has his back to us. He does not turn as we approach, but I can see my other brothers’ faces. Tyelko has his eyes closed, squeezed tightly shut, and is biting his lip so hard I think he may draw blood. He is fidgeting compulsively with the stitching on his sleeve, and I cannot help but watch as he tears a thread loose, pulling at it, making it worse. Moryo stares upwards, with a gaze that looks as though it could burn a hole in the ceiling, his hands balled into fists at his sides. Macalaurë’s face is wan and grey-white as paper, twisted with an anguish so sharp that it tears at my heart simply to look at him. I still cannot see Curvo’s face, but he looks down at something he holds in his hands. Slowly he turns, and Tyelpe buries his face in my tunic rather than meet his father’s eye. I see why; Curvo’s eyes are hollow, empty. Wordlessly, he holds out the objects in his hands towards me. I stare at them. In his left hand is a letter, the red wax seal torn open hurriedly and carelessly. But it is what is in his right hand that makes the breath catch in my chest, my lungs feeling like they are being painfully constricted. It is a long lock of copper-red hair, an almost imperceptible shade lighter than my own. It is bound with an opulent satin ribbon the colour of dried blood. For a moment I am unable to speak.

“ _N – Nelyo?_ ” I finally choke out. “Curvo… what does it say? The letter, I mean?” Suddenly I do not want to read it for myself.

Curvo closes his eyes and passes a hand over his face, running his fingers through his hair in distraction. “He’s alive” he says slowly. “A messenger…” he pauses, and I think how unlike Curvo it is not to finish his sentences. “Nelyo is held hostage. Moringotto will not release him unless we forsake our Oath.”

I open my mouth to speak, but Curvo continues before the words have even formed on my tongue. “He will not keep his word.” He grimaces. “We… if we are to learn anything from Nelyo’s… ambush… it is that the Dark One will not keep his word. He cannot be trusted.”

Tyelpe looks down at his feet. He stands with the hem of my tunic bunched in his fist, although he does not seem to realise it. I find myself stroking his damp hair as I struggle for words, as much to steady my own trembling fingers as to offer any real comfort. I frown, my mind racing. “So… how will we get him back?”

There is a long, horrible silence. And slowly, the realisation creeps over me, as I look into Curvo’s eyes. Tyelpe begins to cry, although I can only tell because I can feel his shuddering sobs as he clings to me. He makes no sound. Suddenly rage boils up within me, and I am shouting, my voice cracking with desperation.

“But – we must! We must do  _something_! How can you live with yourself, Curvo?” I am spitting the words, barely knowing what I am saying. I look at the others in disbelief. “How can any of us live with ourselves if we do nothing?”

“Pityo.” Curvo’s voice is quiet and brittle. “It causes us as much pain as it causes you. But we’ve been discussing - ”

“Not with  _me_! Do I not get a say? He’s my brother just as much as he is yours, and I for one am not going to just leave him there at the mercy of our enemy!” I am fuming, the pain I have worked so hard to push away and cover spewing suddenly, poisonously, to the surface, as I stare into those eyes that remind me too much of our father. I look around again. “Have we no pride left?”

“It may well be that this is a lure, and our brother is long dead. And even if he is alive…” A bitter note creeps into Curvo’s voice, “…then tell me, Pityo, how would you accomplish this grand scheme of yours? Accept the terms, forsake the Oath, cast us all into the Eternal Darkness for Nelyo’s sake? He would not want that, and you know it quite well. Or would you charge in, like he did, and get yourself killed or captured alongside him? Hmm? Think about what you are saying. You’re not talking sense. You are blinded by your pain, and that’s exactly what He wants.”

I grit my teeth. “Don’t you even  _dare_  tell me - ”

But I break off as Tyelpe unclasps his hand from my tunic and silently walks to the corner of the room. I admit I had almost forgotten him. He sits down with his back against the wall and his knees drawn up to his chin. His head is tilted forward and his arms flung around himself as if to block out the world, and his face is hidden by the thick fall of his hair.

“Tyelpe?” says Curvo, hesitantly. He softens almost imperceptibly, although his voice is still stiff and stilted. “Come here. Look at me.” He moves towards his son, and Tyelpe looks up, but does not meet his eye. Instead he looks to me, his gaze unreadable. I try to smile at him, but the muscles of my face refuse to cooperate, and I fear my expression more closely resembles a grimace of pain. Suddenly, Tyelpe gets to his feet, and, without a word or a glance at his father, he runs from the room.

“Let him go” I advise, without thinking.

“What do you know about it?” snaps Curvo, whirling to face me, his face a twisted mask of pain and humiliation. Two pink blotches have appeared on his normally pale cheeks.

“He has had a difficult enough time here. Leave him be for now. Trust me Curvo, you will only make it worse.”

His eyes blaze suddenly. “You think” – his voice is low and dangerous – “that you have some sort of moral superiority over the rest of us, don’t you, Ambarussa?” I wince at the name, and the corner of his mouth twitches with a bitter smile. “You think that you are better, because some part of you broke when Ambarto died. But you know what? You’re not. He was our brother too, and we’re all the same here, all broken. So do not treat me as some sort of - ”

He does not get any further. Almost before I realise, blinding rage is flooding me, and my hand is shooting out to strike him. But before my knuckles can make contact with his jaw, I feel another hand on my wrist, its grip staying my hand inches away from Curvo’s face. He has not even flinched. I turn and see that it is Macalaurë who holds my wrist. With a grunt, I struggle for a moment against him, but to no avail. Macalaurë always seems to be quicker and stronger than I give him credit for; his fingers are soft and skillful, but now they grip like a vice.

“Pityo.” His melodious voice is hard now, steely. “What do you think you’re doing? Is this what we are now? Do we fight amongst ourselves like orcs? We are sons of Fëanáro still. You spoke of the pride of our House. Have some.”

I do not answer. The flash of rage has dissipated, as suddenly as it came, and now I feel slightly nauseous, the blackness sliding back over me. I wrench my wrist from his grasp and rub at it angrily.

“Surely” I say, looking at Tyelko and Moryo, who have remained uncharacteristically quiet, “I am not alone in this? Would you  _all_ abandon Nelyo to…” I swallow nervously, memories of childhood stories of unspeakable horrors in the dungeons of the enemy rising to the front of my mind “…to… his torment?”

“I agree with you, Pityo” says Moryo quietly. His voice is for the once muted and halting, but his cheeks blaze hot with suppressed anger. “I think it is a death trap. And yet I cannot bear to sit here like a coward while Nelyo suffers!” Suddenly he pulls a short knife from at his belt and drives it deep into the thin wooden wall, with a strangled shout of frustration. It sticks there, shuddering, but Moryo slumps into a chair, pressing the heels of his hands over his eyes.

Tyelko’s head snaps upwards. “We have people at our disposal, do we not? And we can make allies of the Þindar, they will fight for us, I am sure of it. Gather our host, march on the enemy. Get back our brother and the Silmarilli, at once. The two aims are not separate.” He nods at the letter and the lock of hair. “Fear. He’s trying to use it to bend us to his will. But I will not be intimidated by - ”

Curvo interrupts him, rolling his eyes. “Always the master tactician, Tyelko. A direct attack? With the… losses…” for an instant, vulnerability flashes across his face, and his acidic tone falters almost undetectably “…we have sustained, we would be cut down where we stood. And the Þindar? Don’t be so naïve. You make diplomacy sound like a trivial matter.”

“Curvo’s right; it is completely outside the realms of possibility” says Macalaurë. There is something tight and artificial in his voice that gives me the distinct impression that he is trying to convince himself as much as the rest of us.

“You don’t believe that” I retort. “Besides, it’s three against two now.”

Suddenly Macalaurë is advancing towards me, and I step backwards before I can stop myself. His gentle face is tortured, haunted, and for a moment I am almost afraid of him.

“I am afraid it does not work like that” he hisses. “ _I_  am King now, although I daresay our people think me just as unsuitable as I know myself to be. And yet, since I have no choice, I will damned well use my position to override my younger brothers!” I notice he is wearing our father’s circlet; it does not quite fit him, and sits fractionally askew atop his hair. He is too proud, I suppose, to ask Curvo to adjust it for him.

His voice rises. “You cast me as the villain here. You probably think me unfeeling, don’t you?”

I am silent.

“Do you want to know what Maitimo said to me? Before he…  _left_?” He swallows. “He said if he were to be slain, to carry on. He said if he did not return, that we should not even search for his body. Now even Maitimo did not anticipate… this. But I know what he would say, I who know him better than any of you. I made a promise to him that day. And I won’t break it.” A grim smile twists his features. “After all, if we do not keep our oaths, why are we even here? What else are we?”

There is a long silence.

Then I find myself walking towards the door, my limbs moving of their own accord, propelled by desire to get out of this room, to blank out my brothers’ faces and the words that have passed between us here. I pull open the door with a little more force than I intend, and stride out into the courtyard, half-running, stumbling a little in my haste. The cold wind and the rain are like a slap in the face, but I am grateful for it; the biting chill is at least somewhat distracting.

I am looking up, which is why I do not notice Tyelpe until I almost collide with him. He dodges out of the way, but I pause. He is standing all alone in the courtyard, staring intently at some small object he clutches in his hands.

“I’m sorry” I tell him. I feel as if I am not only apologising for not looking where I was going, but for everything that has happened, for my brothers, for his whole life. He looks up.

“What’s that you’ve got there?” I ask. He hesitates for a moment.

“Something I made” he mutters. “For… for uncle Nelyo. When I still thought he would come back.”

“Oh.” My stomach dives. “May I see?”

Slowly, unwillingly, he opens his hands. Between his palms lies a jewel, the rich gold colour of dark honey. It is set in a copper pendant (back home, I know, it would have been silver. Here, silver is a scarce commodity. But the copper, I realise with a jolt, is the perfect match to Nelyo’s circlet, the one that grandfather Mahtan made him) surrounded by delicate metal filigree in an elaborate, looping pattern. It is truly impressive work, not up to Atar’s or Curvo’s standard, but certainly showing far more innate skill than I ever demonstrated while I still took lessons in Atar’s forge, a gruelling exercise in embarrassment at my own inadequacy that I endured until I was at least twice Tyelpe’s age.

I lean forward to take a closer look at the stone itself. Did he make that too? Then I gasp, involuntarily. It is a perfectly shaped and polished hemisphere of amber, clear and pale gold. In the centre, the true nature of what I took at first for a flaw in the stone becomes painfully apparent. It is a moth, caught in the amber, its frail, delicate wings frozen and dead.

“I just thought he would like it.” He shrugs. “I bought the amber from one of the Þindar children, for one of atar’s gemstones. It was not a very valuable or uncommon one, but…” he looks worried. “You won’t tell him, will you?”

Silently, I shake my head. Nelyo would indeed have been fascinated by this, _before_. (That word again! It seems to haunt our footsteps and plague every day we spend in this bleak land.)

“It’s…” I try desperately to think of something appropriate to say.

“Trapped” supplies Tyelpe. “It died there. Do you think it suffered, uncle?”

“I do not know.”

His eyes are filling with tears now. Finally he looks up at me, meeting my eye for the first time in long while. “Will you take it, uncle Pityo? I cannot…” he coughs, suppressing a sob. “Please. I don’t want to see it, not anymore.”

I look down at him. His eyes are wide, beseeching, but it seems for a moment that his voice is not that of a child.

“I will” I hear myself saying, although it is the last thing I want to do. But I let him press the beautiful, frightening thing into the palm of my hand. It feels cold as I curl my fingers around it, although they are already chilled from the wind and rain.

“Go find your father” I tell him unsteadily, ruffling his hair in a half-hearted attempt at cheerfulness. He walks away without another word.

When I return to the cramped room where I sleep, I place the jewel carefully in the safe drawer beside my bed and turn the key in the lock.

After all, I have become remarkably skilled at hiding things, and most especially from myself.

————

It is only years later that I remember the incident. The other events of that day, perhaps, swept the memory aside. Or maybe, I sometimes think, I simply chose to forget.

Much has changed at Lake Mithrim; Nelyo has been returned to us, and we are no longer heirs to the throne, a fact for which I am privately grateful.

I am looking through the drawer in search of my circlet. I have not worn it in months, not since Nolofinwë’s coronation. I am certain it is not in the drawer, because I have not put anything there since… well, since  _then_. And yet something, some impulse drives me towards it on the barest pretence of my search. The key turns easily enough, with a quiet click, and then there it is, still-gleaming copper and rich, lustrous amber. I take it out and hold it in my palm. Then, without consciously deciding too, I rummage amongst my things for an old chain and slip the pendant onto it, placing it around my own neck. But, I realise, it is not mine. It is Nelyo’s. It was made for him, and no other. Almost as soon as I have the thought, I find myself throwing my fur-lined cloak around my shoulders and stepping out into the clear, star-strewn winter night.

Nelyo’s room is not far. The camp has expanded since those first days, but still no part of it could be described as far from any other. Firelight blazes in the windows. I knock.

“Come in!” calls my brother’s voice from within.

Nelyo and Curvo sit side by side at the large desk in the centre of the room. In front of them is a map, weighted by a lampstone, a magnifying glass and a pair of bronze dividers, as well as a decanter of bright golden wine and two small goblets. A small but cheerful fire burns in the grate. Nelyo is pointing to a spot on the map, and Curvo is annotating it in red ink, his meticulously neat handwriting crawling across this new landscape which we will divide up between us. Both are animated; it has become rare to see Curvo smile, but matters such as these seem to cheer him, and Nelyo takes pleasure (although I am not entirely sure that is the correct word) in anything that will keep his mind busy nowadays. At least I suppose he does. Some days I get the uneasy feeling that this strange creature with his hollow cheeks and his missing hand and his sombre manner is about as unlike my bright, joyful brother as it is possible to be, although I immediately feel guilty about it. He slips into black moods sometimes. He attempts to hide it, but it is all too obvious. He does not speak of what was done to him, and we do not press him, but something in him changed in those years of captivity.

And yet there are also moments like this. Something close to a smile plays across his lips, although it makes his cheekbones jut out even more sharply than usual, the firelight picking out the jagged scars across his face.

“Pityo! I had no idea you were still awake.” He smiles properly now, and indicates a third chair. “Join us?”

I take the seat, and Curvo pours me another glass of wine. I take a sip. It is sweet, thick and strongly flavoured, and I recognise the taste as one of the ubiquitous winter wines of the Mithrim Þindar. The sweetness, I am told, comes from the cold winters in this northern climate. It is most certainly not distasteful.

I remember why I came here. “Nelyo” I begin, my eyes flickering nervously between my two brothers. “When you were… well,  _before_ , Tyelpe made you something.” Belatedly, I wonder if this is a good idea.

“Oh?” he raises an eyebrow, interested.

I take out the jewel on its chain from under my cloak. I slip it over my head and lay it carefully in his hand.

Nelyo and Curvo look at it for a long time. Nelyo’s face twitches, but the only other sign he shows is a slight crumpling of his brows, a fraction of a frown. “Beautiful. And trapped” he mutters, neutrally, thoughtfully. Curvo’s face grows stormy. His voice is low and dangerous. “What was he…” then he appears to change his mind, cautiously running his finger over the copper filigree, and shakes his head. “It is impressive work for one so young” he muses. “Why did he not show it to me?” He looks almost hurt.

“Because it was not  _for_  you” I explain.

“But it is completely inapprop - ”

“Curvo” interrupts Nelyo sternly, his face blank again. He looks as though he is struggling to keep it that way. “I am not quite  _that_  sensitive. And I appreciate beauty, moreso now than even before. Do not judge too him harshly. He was a child.”

I sigh with relief, and then wonder at the use of the past tense. But, as ever, I realise that Nelyo has been more perceptive than me. Somehow, between then and now, my nephew grew out of his childhood and into… what?

“I do have plans for him, you know. He shall become a proud Lord in the new lands.” Curvo’s voice has a slight hint of defensiveness in it. “Tyelko and I shall rule here” – he indicates a triangle of land on the map, bordered by mountains to the north and rivers to the west and south-east – “and he shall grow into a high position amongst our people. When he is old enough, he shall rule beside us.” He lifts his head. “I am proud of him, although it is possible that he does not realise it.”

“He does not” I say quietly.

Curvo looks a little chastened. “It is not our way - ”

“Not our way?” asks Nelyo, with an ironic twist of his lip. “Have we really not progressed beyond ‘not our way’?” He laughs bitterly. “Actually, I suppose we probably never will, knowing this family. But nevertheless, give Tyelpe my heartfelt thanks.”

I smile and take another sip of sweet wine. “I will.”


End file.
